When I was a child, my parents surgically removed my vocal cords, so they could never hear me cry.They loved me too much, and they wanted me to be always happy. They couldn't bare the though of my shedding a tear or crying out for help or despair. So they removed my cords and replaced my voice with sights. And other feels.
I grew up into my vast bedroom. It had countless closets and hideouts. It had books and pictures. It had barred windows and smooth curtain. It had doors that were always kept locked. I knew these doors led to other houses, similar to my family house, like twin houses. Exactly like mine, but utterly deserted.
I never cared for these doors, though. I had other things to care about. Like, I knew from an early age that I was evil. I knew that, because when I got angry or sad, I had no voice to express it. But I could move things instead with my emotion alone.
When I was happy, the smooth lilac curtains would dance to my pace, flowers would bow their heads, books would open into familiar stories. When I was sad, closets would open up to show me clothes of past glory, worn out and dusty, books would fly up in the air and freeze there, like moments in time, pictures on the wall would turn around to face it. When I was angry, all my possessions would swirl into a hurricane, books would tear themselves up, vases would smash against the walls, curtains would cut themselves in pieces, and the things I loved the less, would explode, creating a superficial mist of unwanted feelings.
When I grew up and became a lady of my own, I was well provided for. I moved into a penthouse, up high, as if to touch the cloudy sky. I had two watchdog companions, taking good care of the needs I couldn't have with thought alone. They kept good company, chatting in front of the fire place on those lonely winter nights, wagging their tales on my presence, watching over me like faithful guardian angels.
Everything was well planned by my ancestors, until the day I met her.
She climbed into my verandah one fine afternoon. She wasn't alone, she had her mate with her. Both mongrels but with a generally decent disposition. Untamed but good hearted. And good mannered, for all that matters. She was pregnant. Few days later she gave birth to two mongrel puppies.
They were a happy family for few months. She was a nice bitch, cared for her puppies as she would, but not too much. I guess it was in her nature, not to care too much for someone you are bound to send off when they grow up. Sort of preparing her lovely puppies for the vast unfriendly stray world out there. She was a decent bitch, indeed. And her pair of hazel eyes, the most honest gateway to the soul I ever saw.
One day I injured one of the puppies by accident in the head. I was devastated and tried to take care of it. The mother licked its wound. I gave it medicine. But the puppy was weak. And I was petrified. I was sad and angry and made things constantly fling into the air. My watchdogs were worried. The bitch and her dog were not that much concerned, though. They had other, more important things in mind. It was end of summer. They had a pleasant time in my yard, but had to prepare for winter.
I didn't know their plans, then, so one day I returned home to find her ready for departure.
The dog had already climbed down, into the city of reality. The bitch was about to follow, with both puppies in her mouth, a faithful servant to the next generation. I was saddened by their departure. The watchdogs were also numb.
My heart broke. It was the first time I wished I had a voice to call her back. To beg her stay.
Everyone and everything shed a big tear that afternoon. All my possessions, including the walls and windows, the books and pictures, the clothes and ornaments, began to cry. It was the darkest afternoon of my existence.
But, there, as blackness sat like a cloud over my eyes, I saw her return. She climbed up in my yard, with the still weak injured puppy in her mouth, and she gently placed it on my feet. She said that a stray life for this little one would be certain death. And since its weakness was my doing, it is also my responsibility to heal it or let it die.
The puppy looked at me and smiled. Either to heal or die, I knew the chances were equal. But was not sad any more, nor evil. And lost my power to move things around.
Since that day, I grew a heart, and neither words, nor desperate actions could substitute that glorious change in me. The puppy lived.
